by Tamara Leigh
“’Twill not be necessary,” the healer said, bending nearer Wulfrith’s man. “Tell him, Sir Knight.”
He held Robert’s gaze. “If the illegitimate issue of Aldous Lavonne fears for his life, as well he should, his only course is to stake me.”
Anger burned a jagged path through Robert. He did not fear anything, not now that he accepted his circumstances would eventually conspire to see his blood flow more freely than this knight’s.
He snorted, stood, and slammed the toe of his boot into the man’s ribs. As Helene gasped and the knight groaned, Robert motioned two men forward. “Secure him however the healer deems best and keep a guard over him.” He pointed the Wulfrith dagger at the first man’s face, then the other’s. “Do not fail me.”
The men nodded.
Robert stepped past them. As Aldous would want to hear of the day’s success, his one worthy son would deliver the tidings. He threw back the tent flap, ducked inside, and crossed to where his father huddled amid a gathering of blankets and furs.
To his surprise, the old man was asleep, his scarred and melted face flaccid but for the slight puffing of his cheeks as he expelled breath.
The need to stay ahead of their pursuers forcing them to move camp almost daily was depleting Aldous as Helene was so fond of arguing. But that was not Robert’s concern. His father had agreed to leave Broehne. Of course, had he protested, he would still be here. Regardless how ill unto death the old man fell, he was not going back, for the little monk who had usurped Robert’s place as surely as Geoffrey had done was more vulnerable with his father’s wellbeing to consider.
Robert laughed. “Little monk,” he murmured as his words went to stand alongside the broad, towering image of Christian. “I like that.”
“A Wulfrith…dagger.” Aldous rumbled.
Gripping the weapon tighter at his side, Robert followed his father’s heavily lidded gaze to the distinctive hilt. “Aye, taken this day from a Wulfrith knight.” He waited for an exclamation of surprise…praise…anything but the words Aldous next spoke.
“My Geoffrey was awarded one—an honor that told he was the worthiest of those deemed worthy.”
Anger again. More jagged. Before it could set a course for his trembling hand, Robert subdued its physical expression. “Yes, and he is dead, Father.” And your little monk is next. “Much good the Wulfrith dagger did him, eh?”
Something like a whimper sounded from Aldous. “Oh, beloved Geoffrey, all my hopes, my dreams…”
“Will die with you,” Robert snarled.
Whether the old man heard was not apparent, for he turned his face into a fold of fur and continued to besiege his eldest son’s ears with moanings over Geoffrey—until Robert had to decide between availing himself of the Wulfrith dagger’s keen edge or taking his leave.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He had been in their bed last night. Nevertheless, if not for the state of the bedclothes and the impression in his pillow, she would not have known he had been there, for she had slept through his coming and going.
Gaenor lifted her bowed head and once more peered over her shoulder. Of the scant dozen who had come to the chapel to hear morning mass, Christian had yet to appear among them.
Why? Not only had he been of the Church in that first life of his, but he was now lord to those for whom he ought to set a godly example. She had been so certain she would find him here, had hoped…
The priest’s closing prayer returned her attention to him, and with silent beseeching she sought God’s favor in helping her and Christian mend whatever bent and broken things could be rendered workable between them.
The priest blessed them all, but as Gaenor joined the others in exiting the chapel, he overtook her. “You grace our chapel with your attendance, my lady.”
“I thank you for your instruction.”
He inclined his head. “Your brothers attended mass ere they departed Broehne.”
Garr and Everard. Abel as well? Or was he as absent then as he was today?
“I pray you also intend to regularly attend services, my lady.”
“I do.”
He smiled. “Then mayhap we will yet see the chapel filled, especially if your good husband accompanies you.”
She knew the answer, but asked, “He does not come often?”
The man sighed. “Alas, I fear not, but now that he is wed and, God willing, shall soon have sons in need of holy instruction, I have hope.”
Would there be sons? Daughters? Might their unquestioned paternity heal the mistakes Christian and she had made?
Make it so, Lord. Let the coming of my menses be enough to begin anew.
Gaenor thanked the priest again and stepped into the dawning of day. Since Broehne’s donjon did not house the chapel, it having been erected in the inner bailey, she was met by moist air, the white breath of which crawled along the ground. Tightening her mantle about her as she moved among the stirrings of life that would soon be teeming, she veered away from the donjon’s main entrance. It was easier to reach the kitchen by going around the side and through the garden. It was also more pleasant.
Hoping Cook had heeded her instructions and his resentment had diminished even the smallest bit, she unlatched the garden gate and pushed it closed behind her.
Here, the morning mist did not crawl along the ground but glided among the herbs and flowers on either side of the graveled path she walked. Though tempted to settle upon one of the benches, she promised herself she would come back later when there was not so much that needed doing.
The gate groaned, and she turned to find Christian advancing on her.
He broke his stride two feet from her. “I was surprised to see you outside the donjon.”
Then he did not know she had come from morning mass, likely suspected ill of her. Further temptation beset her—to serve up sarcasm alongside his suspicion—but there had been nothing habitual about her prayers this morn. What she asked of God He surely would not do if she did not take her own prayers seriously. “I attended mass.”
“Ah.” He nodded, causing a lock of fair hair to fall across his brow and make her fingers curl against the impulse to set it right. “I suppose the priest tasked you with persuading me to accompany you.”
She liked how he looked in the bare light of day, for it reminded her of how he had looked in twilight when he had kissed her in the wood at Wulfen. Fortunately, he was more in control of his emotions than she, for she did not think it would take much to make her forget she should not lie with him until it was proved she did not carry another man’s child.
She moistened her lips. “You should attend mass, if not for yourself, then those who look to you to lead them.”
He seemed to consider it.
“Why do you not? You sought the chapel at Wulfen.”
He almost smiled. “I did. And you are right, I should.”
Then he would?
He looked up. “It appears the sun will be out full today. Will you seek it—even at the risk of freckles?”
Obviously, he remembered when, as Sir Matthew, he had found her on the roof and she had confessed to being partial to the sun no matter the consequences to her skin. “If I have the opportunity, I shall, but there is much to busy me.”
“And much opposition.”
Sir Hector was not remiss in reporting her movements. “As a Wulfrith, ‘tis to be expected.” She started to turn away. “I must speak with Cook about the morning meal.”
“I shall take you riding today.”
Gaenor stilled and looked over her shoulder. “Truly?”
“After we break our fast.” He raised his eyebrows. “If you wish.”
Was God acting on her behalf? So soon? Tears threatening, she said, “I do,” and hurried toward the kitchens that he might not see how moved she was.
She did not expect him to follow, but he did. She did not expect to find herself the topic of conversation by those on the other side of the partially opened door, but she was.
“Accursed Wulfrith woman! Thinks she knows better than I how to run my kitchen.”
“Um hmm.”
The whine belonged to Cook. The murmur could be any one of those who scurried amid the heat and din to do his bidding.
“Tells me the broth is too watered. So what do I say, eh? I can thicken it with a wad of spit if it please ye, m’lady.”
It was what he had said. Though Gaenor had longed to leave him to his kitchens, she had reached inside herself and found her mother. Having sustained Cook’s challenging gaze without waver, she had turned and spat into the enormous pot. “Nay, spit will not do it,” she had said, “and now that it is fouled, you shall have to make a new batch. This time thicker.”
Sensing dark tension behind her, Gaenor looked around. Christian’s face was grim, nostrils flared, jaw hard.
“Ain’t right our lord be made to wed somethin’ like that,” Cook continued. “’Tis no wonder the old man took his leave.”
Christian’s arm shot past Gaenor, but she grabbed it before he could throw the door wider. As the cook continued to grumble, she stepped near her husband. “Do not do this,” she whispered. “Pray, do not.”
“You are my wife!” he rasped, his harsh breath warming her face.
His defense of her was heartening, but this was not the place for it. “You can force them to show me respect”—she held to the tense muscles beneath her fingers—“but you cannot force them to respect me.” She took a step nearer and pressed a hand to his chest. “That is what I want, Christian, and your wrath will not grant it.”
He searched her eyes, then looked to the doorway. When he returned to her, it was her mouth his gaze fell to, and she sensed they were in the wood again—the moment before he had kissed her.
With a sharp breath, he stepped back and pulled his arm from her grasp. “This time I let it pass.” He turned and, over his shoulder, said, “Be ready to ride after you have broken your fast.”
In the time it took for him to stride to the gate, the talk on the other side of the door receded. Thus, when Gaenor entered the kitchens, the cook could not be certain his words had found her ears.
“I would go with you!”
“Nay, you will stay.” Abel leaned down from his destrier and ruffled the boy’s hair. “And you will behave.”
John, who Gaenor had nearly trod upon this morn where he had made his bed outside Abel’s chamber, glowered.
“You will, John.” Abel straightened in the saddle. “Do you understand?”
The boy’s jaw shifted, gaze wavered and, with a catch in his voice, he said, “You will come back?”
Gaenor ached for him. In the absence of his mother, he had further attached himself to Abel who, twice now, had broken the attachment in order to do his duty.
“I will return, and soon,” her brother said. “Indeed, so soon that you may await me here if you like.”
It was true, for he had but offered to join the men-at-arms who would serve as escort to Christian and Gaenor.
John thrust his chin forward. “I shall wait here, Sir Abel.”
“Good boy.” Abel looked to Christian where he was mounted beside Gaenor. “Shall we?”
It seemed to take forever to guide their horses over the drawbridge, so anxious was Gaenor to gain speed beneath her and rushing air upon her face and through her hair.
“I advise we stay in the open,” Abel called as the drawbridge gave onto the beaten dirt road.
Gaenor knew he did not trust the cover of the wood. Were they watched? Nay, she would not think on that. She would enjoy this moment, this truce, even if the man beside her was still in an ill mood over Cook’s words.
At last they were off the path and the horses were allowed to run. The air made free with Gaenor’s hair, tugging and whipping at her braids, loosing strands and tresses. The sun sidled up the sky, breathing warmth upon her face and coaxing her freckles to show themselves. The man who was her husband stayed at her side, setting the pace and drawing her eye time and again.
She had deemed him not quite handsome, but as he relaxed into the ride, she thought she might have been wrong. His chin was defined, nothing weak about it, cheekbones broad, mouth far from thin-lipped, hair…
Whereas the air disheveled hers, it played in his, tugging at the fair strands, pushing them this way and that as if they were but fingers combing at them. Imagining the fingers were hers, she ran the thumb of her free hand over the pads of her fingers.
Christian felt Gaenor’s gaze, and not for the first time. However, when he looked around, her eyes met his as they had not before. And she smiled. Her show of teeth and dimpling of cheeks gave him hope he knew he should not risk until given proof she was not with child, but he defied reason and smiled back.
To his surprise, she laughed and urged her palfrey ahead of his.
The ride was exhilarating, and Christian would have liked it to last longer, but Abel called out a warning when they were out of sight of the castle.
Resenting Robert’s stranglehold on the barony, Christian overtook Gaenor. “We must needs turn back.”
She slowed her palfrey to a walk. “So soon?”
“Aye. Until the brigands are routed from Abingdale, I will risk no more than this where you are concerned.”
She considered him a long moment, then turned her palfrey back the way they had come. “I understand.”
“Do you?” He wished he did—or, perhaps, that he did not.
As he regained her side, she said, “Nay, I suppose I do not understand.”
Christian sought out the men-at-arms and Abel who flanked them, determined they were not near enough to hear, and once more defied reason. “At Wulfen, you said you liked that I did not look through you—that I saw you.”
Stiffening in the saddle, she withheld her gaze.
“In spite of all, I still do, Gaenor, and now you know ‘tis not because I had not laid eyes on your sister.”
She said nothing, and while he waited on her, he turned his head to survey the bordering wood. He trusted the vigilance of Abel and his men-at-arms, but as had been stressed during his training at Wulfen, it was his responsibility to protect his back—more, Gaenor’s back.
“I know that now,” she said so low her words nearly slipped past. “Just as I know that, in exchange for testimony of Beatrix’s innocence, you forced Garr to agree to hand me over. Like chattel.”
It was too late to do things differently. He eased his destrier nearer, the brush of his calf against hers causing her to look around. “I wished for an end to the warring between our families—the suffering of both our peoples, Gaenor—and you were the promise of that. But I would have you know, had your brother not agreed to my terms, I would not have denied your sister her testimony. God forgive me, I am not above lying, but I am above the taking of innocent lives.”
He held her gaze, letting her search his for the truth. It was there, if she would but see it.
She looked toward the castle walls that were yet distant and would be for some time at this pace.
Christian scanned the trees again. “Was it Sir Durand who told you of the bargain?”
She hesitated, but when she said, “Aye,” he knew her admission was likely the result of her belief that the knight was safely out of his reach.
“That is why you fled Stern?”
“That is why.”
“Though you knew it was Beatrix for whom he felt?”
“Though I knew.” Her shoulders rose with a deep breath. “It was foolish, but it seemed preferable to marrying a Lavonne who had made a game of my sister’s life, a man I did not know.” She looked sidelong at him. “I thought I did not know. Do I?”
Christian laid a hand over hers that gripped the reins. “I would have you believe me, Gaenor. The bargain I made was but an ill-conceived ploy.”
She lowered her gaze to their hands. When she looked back at him, her eyes were pools of sorrow. “I want to believe, just as I want you to believe that what
happened between Sir Durand and me happened months ago.” She put her head to the side. “But who will be the first to believe?”
She asked this when she dared to keep her lover’s missive? A missive secreted in the psalter he had seen beside the bed when he had come to their chamber after the middling of night? He withdrew his hand from hers.
When there was once more space between their horses, Gaenor said, “Of course, you will come nearer to believing me when my flux is upon me.” She frowned. “Though still it will not be enough, will it? All it will prove is that when I fled Stern with Sir Durand, a child was not conceived.”
She was right, but more because of the missive. How was he to believe her response to him at Wulfen was genuine when that accursed piece of parchment was yet between them?
Lord, she near sleeps with the thing!
He ought to tear it apart…burn it. And he would if not that it was of use to him—as a test of sorts. It would mean nothing if he took the missive from her, everything if she disposed of it herself.
Sensing the bore of Abel’s gaze, he glanced beyond her to where her brother kept pace. Doubtless, he questioned the exchange between his sister and her husband.
Gaenor put her chin up and shook her braids back. “I thank you for the ride,” she said, then put her heels to her palfrey.
Christian spurred after her but allowed her to keep the lead. As long as she did not get any farther ahead, she would be safe.
Gaenor leaned over her palfrey’s neck, closed her eyes, savored the cool air against her lids, and tried to think only on this. She could not, for Christian was nearly as corporeal in her thoughts as when he stood before her.
Lifting her lids, she noted the work day had begun, as evidenced by the appearance of villagers and their carts on the road before the castle.
She sighed. She had not meant to reject Christian’s attempt at peace, and she had not, but neither had she taken hold of it. To do so would require trust, and trust was not like a river, flowing only in one direction. It had to flow both ways, did it not?
Mayhap not in the beginning. It could start with you.
